


Strange How Hard It Rains

by PepperF



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Angst without plot, F/M, angsty, i was in one of those moods, like PWP only with angst, sadfic, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7867960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's so far from her perfect man, it's a joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange How Hard It Rains

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Bethany for editing and encouragement. And sorry if this makes anyone sad - blame Dan Harmon!

She never planned for this. The section of her life plan that dealt with relationships (points 11a through 19e) was originally written with a very different man in mind—young, handsome, athletic, biddable—someone cheerful and chivalrous, albeit underneath a certain amount of jock posturing that would need to be carefully peeled away to reveal his good heart. But while she's right about the good heart, and once she truly gets to know him she loves him very deeply, it turns out that they never fall _in_ love. And she's okay with that.

Still, her plans were formed, and she sees no real reason to change them, although Troy no longer fits the mold. They fit her, and there's nothing wrong with having standards, a list of criteria and an uncompromising attitude. 

Maybe she won't find her perfect man at Greendale—it's not exactly awash with eligible bachelors. She's fairly certain it isn't going to be Vaughn, despite the occasional daydream, but she thinks that maybe she needs to get some relationship experience under her belt—maybe that'll make things easier when she does find _him_. She's not expecting her perfect man to sit around waiting for her, and she certainly doesn't intend to stagnate until she finds him, either. Plus it doesn't hurt that Vaughn is handsome, and sweet, and extremely good in bed—kind, patient, and creative. She was due some luck in that regard. It was always destined to be a college romance, and she thinks they're both okay with that. Vaughn will be left with some sweetly melancholy songwriting fuel, and she'll acquire experience and confidence, and some fond memories of a relationship that came to a natural end with no bad feelings.

And then… then there's Jeff. It's not like she's never thought of him that way. He's very good-looking, and confident in a way that almost always works for her (except when it makes her want to kick him in the shins), and he's intelligent, which makes a nice change, and a good kisser… but he's very definitely older, and he's kind of failed at life in a way she really wants to avoid. And he can be mean and manipulative, and cynical. There's no way he wants the sort of things she does (marriage, kids, a big house and a dog). They're only really similar in their ambitious natures, but his is the kind where he wants to get as much as he can for as little work as possible. She can't help but think that he's wasting his potential—worse, that he's doing it _knowingly_ , that he's aware of how much more he could accomplish, if only he was prepared to make the effort. He's so far from her perfect man, it's a joke.

But then some strange impulse—desire? competitiveness? curiosity?—drives her up onto her toes to kiss him, and when he kisses her back, she feels something, like a click. Like the whole universe just shifted a fraction of an inch, and then slipped into place.

_Oh,_ she thinks, stupidly. _What was that?_

It takes her longer than it should to work it out, probably because he's not at all what she's had in mind, so it doesn't bother her that he fails to contact her all summer. Men, in her experience, need to be led along, drawn out when it comes to these things. She's got time—she'll have plenty of access to him when they return to Greendale in the Fall. But when they do, he and Britta get into an absurd competition about who's going to admit first that they don't love the other, and it's childish and tacky—not the kind of behavior she wants in a boyfriend. Maybe she was mistaken, and it was just an end-of-year thing after all. Her first impression of him was obviously correct: he's not the man for her.

Now the idea has been planted in her brain, though, and she can't quite kill it off. It's like a weed, some invasive species with deep roots that keeps popping up, time and time again, growing and getting stronger in the unobserved corners of her mind. And the times when he's not a lazy jerk, when he's kind or protective, or when he shows his fast wit and intelligence, or—less worthy but no less attractive—his ability to control a situation and make everyone dance to his tune, or when he saves her from almost-certain-mild-sparks, tackling her to the floor and shielding her with his body, heavy and warm as he lingers over her… She forgets, then, that she doesn't want him, that pursuing him is a waste of her time and energy.

But then sometimes he gives her this blank, distant look, and it's like all the shutters have come down—like he's high and far away, untouchable, a stranger. She can't read him, then—she doesn't know if he's lying, if he's protecting himself, or if this is a glimpse of the real him. It's like a cold, thin knife to the heart, and somehow she's never prepared for the blow. It makes her feel like an idiot, like she's just an annoying little girl who forced her way into his life. All this time, was he just being polite? When she thinks of the things she's said, the way she's put herself out there for him, her cheeks burn with retrospective embarrassment. It's worse than any anger he's ever directed towards her, because at least that's personal—at least that gives her something to fight.

What makes it harder are the other looks he gives her, the ones where their eyes meet in the middle of some stupid group moment—usually after a massive fight, when they're all making up and everything's good again. And it's like they step back for a moment, just the two of them, and see their Greendale family for what it is, all the ridiculousness and the love. And the look in his eyes is so warm and gentle, and a little bit dreamy, and he gives her _that smile_ , the one that makes her feel special, and beautiful, and cherished...

She doesn't know if he means to be cruel. Is he intentionally stringing her along, or is it just instinct—Jeff closing up and protecting himself when things get too real? She knows she's not crazy, that she's not completely imagining those moments, and she hasn't forgotten the way he kissed her—but she doesn't know if she's reading too much into things, building up tiny amounts of affection into a rickety parody of love. After all, she spent most of her childhood telling herself, _she has to love me, she's my mother—she only does this because she cares_. Maybe she's conditioned herself to see more, to look for the best possible explanation, because the truth is too painful: that the people she loves don't always love her back.

Maybe she just needs to rewrite her plan. Maybe it's not Jeff she wants, but someone like Jeff. And when she meets Rich again, she thinks, optimistically, _yes, maybe this was the reason!_ Because he shares a lot of Jeff's characteristics, but he cares, openly and without embarrassment.

And she won't sit back and wait for a man, now. No longer will she share her tips for the perfect date, or her grandmother's quilt for him to sit on with some other girl, in the hope that he'll suddenly realize that the girl he wanted all along is the one standing right in front of him. She's learned that she can kiss a guy and have him kiss her back, even though he doesn't want to date her, and has two other (hot, experienced!) women vying for his affections. So if Jeff isn't interested or whatever, that's his loss. Maybe Rich will see her, and want her for who she is.

He doesn't, of course. She's "great, but too young" for him. Is that how Jeff feels? And if so, why won't he just come out and say it?

She sits in her car with her phone in her hand, rain drumming hard against the roof, and watches Jeff standing outside the library, talking to Andre. She considers texting him, but in the end she sends the message to Abed, who's probably the only one in the group who won't judge her or question her right to have feelings. When the other man leaves, Jeff stays there, staring out into the rain, and she wonders what he's thinking about—if she even features at all. 

And then Abed appears, and she regrets sending him the text. _Dammit, is he going to play god again?_

Whatever Abed says, it seems to have a galvanizing effect on Jeff. He steps out into the rain, and for half a second her heart is in her throat, wondering if he's seen her out here, watching him from afar. But he turns left, and races off down the middle of the road, like the hero in the final scene of a movie. All that desperate romance is for someone else, not for her. It'll never be for her.

He disappears quickly, and when she looks back at the library steps, Abed is gone, too. She's left behind, alone. There's an ache in the center of her chest—not sharp like a break, but soft and tired, like some small, fragile thing has quietly curled up and died.

She starts the car and heads for home.


End file.
